


Fierce and Loyal

by Resoan



Series: Dragon Age Inquisition AU [8]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 06:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3317585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resoan/pseuds/Resoan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas discovers he can do nothing about the mark on Velahari’s hand, and Fena’dea is suspicious of him when she’s brought to the dungeons in Haven after being accused of accessory to whatever Velahari did to tear open the Breach in the sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fierce and Loyal

The dungeons underneath the Chantry were dark and dank, the only light a weak, flickering torch which Solas doubted would last much longer. Even then, however, he did not worry; even if he didn't have magic readily at his disposal, the elf's hand persisted in glowing: growing and spreading across her skin, and even his attempts at keeping it from engulfing her fully were beginning to lose their power. His lips pursed when the mark glowed even brighter in the shadows, a whimper sounding in the back of her throat even in her unconscious state. “I am sorry,” he whispered, fingertips idly tracing over the skin of her palm where the mark still glowed a faint veridian. “Were it not for my carelessness, you would not be dying.”

It was not an optimistic diagnosis, he knew; her magic strained and writhed just beneath her skin, somehow able to perceive the silent death that began even now to drag her down, but without her will, it was powerless: just as he was. He frowned down at her face, closed eyes squinting and lips perpetually parted as inaudible whispers and gasps of pain fled them; the Seeker had not been pleased when Solas informed her that there was nothing left to be done, had even drawn her blade and brandished it at him as though it might suddenly dawn new information upon him, though he could understand her frustrations: was likely feeling them more keenly than she herself was.

A muffled shout drew Solas's attention back towards the stairwell leading into the Chantry, and it only grew louder as his eyes narrowed and he attempted to get a better look at whatever was the source of the commotion. “Where are you taking me? I didn't  _do_ anything!” The voice, feminine and angry, shouted, quite obviously chafing against whatever hold was dragging her down to the gaol. A louder cry from the elf curled at his side garnered his attention straightaway, however, and light flooded into the dungeons when the door from above was opened, the sound of plate and mail descending the stairs scarcely audible over the woman's struggling.

Part of him was wholly unsurprised to see another Dalish, though he could not feel any magic coming from her; it took a mere cursory glance over her to see the callouses on her hands, the graceful gait of her steps even shackled and tucked between templars as she currently was. Her eyes were a startling shade of purple as Solas looked up, though the Dalish elf was not looking at him; her gaze had settled on the other at his side, fear and concern twisting and contorting her features until she shrieked the woman's name,  _Velahari_ .

She struggled all the more before finally being tossed unceremoniously into one of the cells, her hands circling around two of the iron bars as the templars rounded on their heels with scarcely even a glance in Solas's direction. “Who are you?” The woman veritably  _growled_ in his direction, though Solas couldn't blame her her distrust – not after she'd been escorted to a cell and she'd discovered her friend unconscious and being attended by an unknown. “What's the matter with Velahari?”

For several moments, Solas was at a loss as to how he might explain;  _Your friend is dying_ did not seem a proper response when she was already so upset, and he could already hear the venom she might spew in his direction: calling him a charlatan, a  _liar_ , perhaps even accusations that he had done this to her on purpose.  _That_ thought tore a little at him; it was his fault, certainly, but it had not been intentional. Such a detail did not seem to matter in the grand scheme of things, though; he would never be able to count how many people had lost their lives because of his desperation, his  _foolishness_ , but he had come too far to simply abandon everything and move on – there were those who counted on him, even if they did not appreciate his efforts.

“Answer me!” The woman persisted, knuckles turning white as her grip around the cell bars tightened.

“I don't know,” Solas finally replied, and that, at least, seemed to appease the woman. “She is fighting the magic that has marked her, but I cannot say how long she can endure.” It was softer than outright predicting she would die soon, and the elf behind bars didn't bother trying to stifle hot tears that pricked the corners of her eyes.

“She can't die.” It was whispered and desperate, and Solas's frown deepened as she sagged against the bars of her cell. “I was supposed to watch over her, to keep her safe...” Hers was a tortured tone, so full of emotion it tugged at Solas's own heartstrings. Silence resounded between them, all save the ragged breathing of their unconscious occupant; the elf fell into uneasy slumber after exhausting all of her tears, and though Solas found himself meditating more frequently – any attempt at finding a spirit willing to help in some capacity – it did not help.

 

* * *

 

“There's too many, Seeker Cassandra! We must retreat.” It was a human's voice that echoed in the dungeons, rousing two of the three elves from slumber.

“We cannot retreat now,” Cassandra spoke harshly, her eyes narrowed at the soldier at her side. “The Rift is growing with every passing moment, and if we flee, then demons will overcome the world. I will _not_ allow that to happen while I draw breath.” She cast her eyes towards the elves, though Solas was already standing, resolve hardening his eyes into dark, stormy grey.

“I would help you fight, Seeker, presuming you allow an apostate to do so.” There was no jape in his tone, and though he could see the distrust cross over the woman's face briefly, she was in no true position to deny him. A tacit query remained, however; her eyes flicked to the unconscious form curling around the pained, glowing hand, and Solas shook his head almost imperceptibly: there was nothing he could do. Cassandra sighed, but did not question – it had done nothing but caused headaches thus far anyway, and she needed the bodies between innocent people and the never-ending barrage of demons.

Until Cassandra looked to the elf in the cell, Solas had nearly forgotten about her presence at all; she'd been unusually quiet and subdued, as though caught between two impossible choices, though she stood slowly, eyes impossibly sorrowful as they looked at the crumpled form of her friend on the dungeon floor. “Will you fight the demons, or will we be forced to keep you here?” Cassandra's tone was impatient, and the brunette looked to her after a moment, eyes narrowed and expression fearsome.

“It will be difficult to fight demons from inside my cage,” the elf all-but-snarled.

“You are an accomplice to the prisoner,” Cassandra returned, lips twisting into a scowl.

“Now is not the time to fight amongst ourselves. The world will burn down around us if we waste more time.” It was Solas who quieted the pair of them, and the brunette heaved a quiet sigh, a gloved hand raking back through her short hair.

The Seeker eyed her warily as she produced the key and allowed the elf out, though when it became clear she did not intend to attack, she gestured wordlessly for the recruit to give the hunter back her daggers. Fena'dea took them and sheathed them at her hips, though paused and knelt at Velahari's side momentarily. “I know you will pull through this, Lethal'lan.  _Fight_ . I know you can.” She clenched her jaw then, forcing herself to believe what would likely not come to pass, but without even a small fragment of hope to cling to, she would be lost in her despair.

 

* * *

 

The fighting, in a word, was brutal; demons poured from the heavens, and Fena'dea found it incredibly disturbing that spirits did not bleed like proper beings when her daggers pierced into them. Only twice was she forced to fall back from injuries, though she was beyond pleased Solas could heal – she would never have made it without falling without him. Any doubts concerning him or his intentions were cleared away, and she even managed a smile for him – one which he curiously returned, raised eyebrow and all.

The bulk of the Chantry forces were centered just outside of the destroyed temple where the Breach's influence was strongest, but even Fena'dea could see they were just barely holding the demons off. She could not heal as Solas could, but she could fetch water and bandages, could help a wounded soldier to a makeshift cot, and mix herbs for poultices the shemlen were not aware of; many were surprised to see a Dalish willingly help humans, but Fena'dea did not complain: she was helping others, and that was what mattered. It was also easier to forget how utterly she'd failed Velahari by keeping busy, though when night fell, it was worse.

“Don't tell me the big, gaping hole in the sky has got you down.” Fena'dea blinked at being addressed, and found herself looking at a dwarf sitting just across the camp, blond hair tied back and an easy, ironic smile on his lips. “Chances are we'll all be dead tomorrow. Why waste all that time brooding and frowning?”

“We can't all be sunshine and daisies like you,” Fena'dea remarked, though her jape made him frown – a memory of more pleasant times still haunting him. There was silence between them then, Fena'dea's hands idly rubbing together close to the fire in an attempt to warm them; the Free Marches had always been chilly, especially in the winter, but Ferelden, especially so far south, was worse than she'd anticipated.

Solas eventually wandered closer, the elf eventually taking a seat closer to the fire and warming his own hands; “I bet you had your hands full today,” Varric murmured, eyes turning towards Solas. “That last battle was a bloody massacre, but you can't tell Cassandra to move. We'd all be better off telling the mountains to move.”

“Indeed.” Solas was frowning, and Fena'dea couldn't even begin to imagine how many times he'd washed his hands of blood that day alone. “She must realize we cannot last here – no matter how much a threat the Breach poses, without a way to close it permanently, we are throwing men to their deaths unnecessarily.”

“So we leave it unattended, and just let demons roam the countryside, killing civilians – farmers, merchants, women, children?” Fena'dea wasn't looking to argue, but the entire situation was simply _frustrating_ , and nothing she could do would stop it. They were helpless, but Cassandra simply didn't want to admit it as of yet.

 

* * *

 

Fena'dea awoke the next morning to more demon attacks. The bastards had somehow managed to infiltrate the camp, and all those she'd called allies the previous evening were slain in their beds; how had they been so cunningly outwitted? She supposed it didn't really matter; anger fueled her motions, and those few demons she could not reach, Varric could – she'd only seen a glimpse of his crossbow, but it was impressive, and he scarcely ever missed his target. Solas's barriers kept most of the magical attacks at bay, though it didn't stop the sharp claws some of the Shades possessed as they ripped across her back; a few soldiers remained to help, but they were green recruits, and could scarcely swing a sword without taking three hits in the interim.

“They're endless,” Fena'dea breathed, blood slithering down the back of her armor from where she'd been injured, though there'd been no time to address it – the demons kept coming, and Solas's magic was undoubtedly becoming exhausted the longer the battle persisted. A glint of something out of the corner of her eye drew her attention, and where she might have assumed it was another demon manifesting from the shifting rift above their heads, she felt nothing but relief when Cassandra waded into the fray, her blade a welcome one as it cut down half a dozen demons with but a single swipe.

A bolt of lightning arced from the sky and struck a shade as it loomed closer, and as it split off and found other targets, Fena'dea twisted her head around – she had yet to see Solas use a lightning spell, after all... Her heart abruptly stopped as she saw Velahari, dark circles under her eyes though otherwise none the worse for wear; the demons fell easily then, as if seeing her friend alive and whole had given her a second wind. Fena'dea breathed easier when the demons were gone, though the rift remained: ominous and eerie just above her head.

She turned in time to see Solas approach her friend, head cocked lightly to the side before he reached for her wrist and pulled it closer to the rift. “What are you-” Whatever words Fena'dea might have said died on her tongue as the magic in Velahari's palm interacted with the rift, and after a few moments of connection, it dissipated. “Well, that's useful.” Still, her friend was alive, and before Velahari could get a word out, Fena'dea had thrown her arms around the redhead's neck, her embrace tight. “Don't you ever scare me like that again. Do you hear me?” Fena'dea waggled her finger as a mother might, and Velahari chuckled quietly before inclining her head in agreement.

 


End file.
